Constellations
by scorchedtrees
Summary: The human soul is made of stars. Rivetra, soulmates AU.


_A/N: This is based on this tumblr post: fiftystakes tumblr com/post/93820073794/ (replace the spaces with dots, of course). If you're too lazy to check it out, it says "soulmate au where only your soulmate can kill you" and then there is added commentary that I used as a reference when writing this._

_I really don't like this and want to rewrite it someday, but I doubt I will ever get around to that. /sigh Ah well. Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!_

* * *

The human soul is made of stars.

An infinite number of them stretching across vast galaxies, filling the universe of the human body with pinpricks of light. Each shines brightly, but a scattering of stars is nothing, not until a constellation is formed.

That is when the true beauty of the soul manifests itself—two sets of stars, perfectly conjoined in a blazing image of strength and vitality, the everlasting nature of two souls made into one. Nothing can touch them but the other, and only when every last star is gone can the constellation die out.

It is the gift of God, they say. Humans have overcome other species, the earth, each other, and even their own nature, but one thing that will always bring them down is loneliness. God arranged this, to allow everyone to live and die with the very person who will understand them the most. It is a blessing.

(No one mentions how the stars can darken, how half of them can turn on the other, smothering its own life; how the remaining constellation will become an entirely new, untouchable one of its own. No one thinks of the old souls, forever young, watching the rest of the world through eyes weathered by ages of solitude, and no one sees the eternal regret that inevitably haunts those faces.)

.

.

.

If the human soul if made of stars, then he must not be human.

If he were truly made of light, surely he would shine more brightly than anyone else; it is the price of being humanity's strongest. He has been to more charity galas and military events than he can count, been complimented and lauded and thanked wherever he goes; he has been everywhere from the towering forests outside the Walls to the bowels of Sina's underground—and he has always been alone.

He does not have someone to fight at his back, completely trusting in him as he should trust in them, someone ready to die with him. It is merely luck that has kept him from becoming one of the broken halves lining row after row in the infirmaries, unable to slip into the black relief of death without help, waiting for someone to end their pain.

He is merely lucky, and a good fighter, and he will never know anything other than the constant cycle of blood and pain and death—and he believes this fully until the moment he looks out over the crowd during one of Erwin's speeches to the latest batch of new recruits, catches someone's gaze, and feels something bone-deep shift.

She is nothing special, a girl with bright hair and fierce eyes, a description that could fit almost half the soldiers here—but suddenly his world is a whole lot smaller and she is at the center of it.

Her hand is fisted over her heart, her face frozen in an expression of anxiety and resolve, but her eyes dart to him and her features melt into confusion. He tears his gaze away and focuses on the deepening blue of the evening sky, trying to control the sudden pounding of his heart.

_Kill her,_ he can hear Kenny whisper in his ear. _A knife in the dark—no one will know, and you will never have to fear death again._

_Go talk to her,_ Hanji whispers in the other. _She can help you loosen that stick in your ass._ He can practically see the obnoxious wink. _Literally._

_Shut the fuck up,_ he tells both voices, and chooses to ignore the girl.

.

.

.

Her name is Petra Ral, she was fifth in her trainee class, and she's a fucking _child_.

Compared to her he feels positively ancient, and he is disgusted with himself when he finds his eyes straying across the dining hall or the training grounds sometimes, lingering on the curve of her cheek, the slim outline of her neck. _She's probably not much more than half your age,_ he thinks, and that should be reason enough to stay away from her, but she is everywhere.

"Good morning, captain," she says when he walks in to breakfast in the morning, and he nods in brief acknowledgment without looking her way.

"Are you busy, sir?" she asks in the afternoon, holding up a set of tangled 3DMG wires. "I was hoping you could show me the move you were doing earlier—I tried to replicate it, but…" Her sheepish smile nearly wins him over, but he grunts that he is busy and turns to leave.

"I made some extra, captain," she says at night, dropping by his office with a cup of tea, and he cannot bring himself to refuse her but he lets it go cold overnight, because if he drinks something made by her hands he is afraid he will never want anything else.

"You've never been friendly but you seem to hate this year's new recruits," Hanji says one day. "Did someone track mud in your bedroom? Steal all your bars of soap?"

He does not answer, but at that moment Petra walks past. She sees them standing at the end of the hallway and offers a smile before moving on; Levi looks away.

"Ah," Hanji says, grin widening. "I see."

Levi glares.

.

.

.

He does not know if she gets the point, but eventually Petra Ral stops trying to talk to him, and he feels equal measures disappointment and relief.

He centers his attention on honing his skills, on developing new strategies and more effective ways of communication outside the Walls… on all the paperwork he has to do. Being a ranked officer in the Scouting Legion means paperwork. It means hundreds of forms and reports and files to go through, and among those files are lists of soldiers, attached and detached alike. The attached are always put together in squads.

He is listed as detached, and he never bothers to change his status, but when Erwin assigns him as leader of the special operations squad less than a year later, panic and irritation war for dominance in his mind when he sees the first name on the list. (His first feeling is something like pleasure, but he blots that out immediately.)

"Petra Ral?"

"She is a promising young soldier," Erwin says, and Levi can't deny that. "She is skilled, shows extraordinary ability to adapt to difficult situations, and works well on a team." The commander raises one eyebrow in a subtle shift of expression. "Is there anything you find displeasing about her performance?"

_You know,_ Levi thinks, but he only shakes his head. He wonders if Hanji told him or if Erwin figured it out himself.

_It's nothing,_ he tells himself later that night. He's been avoiding her for nearly a year; he can do it in close quarters too.

A voice of reason tries to point out, not for the first time, that he is being ridiculous, but he has always avoided that too; he blocks out the thought and thinks about the next expedition instead.

(He has never lived by the rules and he sees no point in starting now, because he does not need another half of his soul; he doesn't want it. She must have it all already because he can only be empty.)

.

.

.

Erd has a civilian girl; Gunter and Auruo are detached. So are Levi and Petra, officially.

She no longer tries to make conversation with him; she makes conversation with the whole squad. She laughs and jokes and teases, puts them in their places when they deserve it, and despite her size, Levi thinks she is the biggest presence of them all.

"Would you like some coffee, sir?" she says, and the other three are drinking it already so he accepts. "Was that okay, captain?" she asks, but Erd, Gunter, and Auruo asked too so he answers. "Merry Christmas," she says, handing him a wrapped present the moment he comes down from his bedroom, and there are packages on the other three chairs so he lets himself accept it.

Somewhere between trying to avoid the girl whose very presence seems to fill his heart and seeing her every day as a member of his squad, he has grown accustomed to her existence, to her cheerful greetings and snarky quips and comforting presence, and while he tries to stay far away from the whole soulmates thing, he begins to accept and appreciate who she is.

(He still isn't used to her hair though, red and gold in some lights, orange in others; her eyes, sparkling with a kaleidoscope of stars; her voice, words so soft that he can only imagine what his name must sound like.)

.

.

.

Time passes, and the special operations squad grows closer and better with every mission, every expedition. Some would call it a miracle that the five of them are still alive and whole; Levi calls it skill.

It is rewarding, watching them each grow into their potential, watching them become four well-oiled cogs in one gleaming machine; watching them become surer and steadier every day, he feels something that might be pride.

He tries not to but he notices Petra more than the others: each of her maneuvers, every one of her little movements, and the way she stands straighter than ever, that unwavering determination on her face, that bright smile at her lips. She is excellent with her blades, clever in the way she uses both her mind and body to fight—he has always known this, but watching her spin and slash and streak through the air, he learns it all over again.

As the four become more and more comfortable with each other, so does he—which is why he forgets and lets himself get too close, talking too much when unnecessary, spending too much time together after hours. It is his own fault when, one night alone in the hallway outside his bedroom, she stands too close and he lets her, and only when he sees in her expression that she is about to kiss him does sense return.

"Petra—"

"You must feel it too," she blurts, and with those few words, more follow, falling from her lips in a jumbled rush like they have been bottled up for too long. "It's always two, and I only felt it the day I joined and Erwin was making a speech and I looked up and saw you and—you must feel it too."

He can smell her hair, sweet and soft, her skin, glowing under the pale lights flickering along the walls, and he wants nothing more than to give in at that moment—but he forces himself to think of what has kept him safe all these years, blood and pain and death, repeating themselves over and over in an endless mockery of life.

"It's not unusual," he says, the words sticking in his throat like glue, "for soldiers to develop… feelings for their superior officers. You must know not to act on those impulses though."

Her eyes, when she looks at him, are flecked with stars; he wants to read them on her lips, taste them on her tongue, see if they are the same ones he has always known—but he lifts his gaze to the wall past her instead. "Do you understand, Ral?"

She does, but she doesn't, and he silently implores her not to try again—but she is Petra, stubborn to a fault, and of course she does not listen to his wordless plea. "Levi," she says slowly, trying out his name.

It sounds right in her voice, more than right; he squeezes his eyes shut. "Ral. You should have someone else."

A beat, and then she steps back. "I'm sorry I bothered you, captain," she says coolly, and his body suddenly feels cold at the absence of her warmth. "Good night."

He did the right thing; he knows he did. It is what he tells himself when the sun's rays touch the horizon and he still cannot sleep—she is young and bright and full of potential, and he is dark and empty, a black hole to her sun. It must be the universe's idea of a colossal joke, putting them together. He can only bring her harm.

She is frostily polite to him all day, and the next, and the next, and he realizes he forgot to consider what sort of harm she might bring him.

.

.

.

She has never been grievously injured on an expedition before, but the moment the Titan grabs her, before bone crunches and flesh tears, he _knows_.

He is untouched but suddenly he cannot breathe, and Auruo aims for the giant's neck while Erd goes to slice at its fingers; Gunter hovers below, ready to catch her when she is released from its grip. In less than a moment, Petra is safe and pulled onto the cart where the wounded ride, but Levi still cannot breathe.

He sits by her bedside in the infirmary, not caring who sees anymore, and as he waits for her to wake up it hits him that truly, for better or for worse, she is the one he is meant to die with. Everyone is born with someone in their future, and whether she deserves it or not, he is hers.

And she is his.

He sits long into the night, and when at last her eyes flutter open, they dart to him—and go still. He licks his lips, knowing he should speak but there are too many things clamoring to leave his throat that he does not know where to begin, and she beats him to it.

"Are you here because you're concerned about your welfare in the future?"

It stings, but the comment is justified. "I meant it," he says carefully, trying to gather his thoughts, "when I said you should have someone else—you deserve better."

Her laugh turns into a rasping cough. "I don't want better. I want you."

He has no response to that; three simple words and suddenly the floodgates of his heart have been thrown wide open. He can feel the waters rushing through, dotted with stars, and he can see the picture the two of them are beginning to form.

He lays one hand by hers, then brushes her fingers before taking her hand in his own. They fit together perfectly; despite the amount of blood she lost, her skin is still warm where he touches her. "I'm an idiot."

"You're an idiot," she agrees, but she squeezes his hand, and for the first time in his life he can feel the stars in the soul he must have after all, reaching out for hers.

.

.

.

Part of him expects things to be different afterwards, but everything feels the same. He registers their names under attached, ignores Hanji's _I-knew-it_ smirks, and says nothing to the squad but either Petra told them or it was that obvious from the beginning because no one comments. Apart from freer conversations in private and certain recreational activities they partake in at night (and sometimes during the day too, to be honest), everything is the same.

He learns a lot more about her though, learns about her parents, her bedridden mother who was in the Scouting Legion, still clinging on to life after having an arm and leg swallowed by a Titan, still alive so her daughter can have a father. He learns about the sketches she does in her spare time and the little garden she weeds whenever she goes home; he learns that she is ticklish behind her knees, that she likes it when he tugs lightly on her hair, that she has little constellations all over her body.

He explores them in detail, tracing the separate stars with his fingers, his teeth, his tongue, and some mornings when the sun shines through the window, it turns her hair into molten gold and illuminates the freckles on her shoulders, her back, her thighs, and he kisses each one until she either pushes him away or pulls him close again.

"We never talked about it," she says one such morning, curling her arms around him but squirming away from his lips, so he settles back into the pillows and kisses the crown of her head instead.

"About what?"

"If one of us gets hurt."

Humans can only die at other humans' hands, but Titans certainly help them along. Levi tightens his hold on her and says after a pause, "I always have a knife with me."

"Me too," Petra says, and they leave it at that.

.

.

.

He brings the little dagger everywhere; it accompanied him wherever he went when he lived on the streets, and when he joined the Scouting Legion he did not lose the habit. He never thought he would use it though, never let himself think he would use it, and it isn't until the roar echoes through the forest that he suddenly feels it in his boot, digging into his ankle, hard, cold, unforgiving steel.

He sees Gunter first and pushes back the alarm rising in his chest; he needs to stay focused, especially if these are going to be the last moments of his life. He cuts him down and lays him on the ground, and he thinks Gunter gives him a grateful look but it might just be his imagination; Gunter is as good as dead.

"You fought well," Levi says, and both _thank you_ and _I'm sorry_ get choked in his throat so he salutes the fallen soldier instead, and moves on.

He lays Erd and Auruo to rest as well, and as he stands there looking down at their broken bodies, he thinks of two strong young men, full of life and laughter, and he closes his eyes for a brief moment before steeling himself. There is still one body left.

He finds her twisted against the tree trunk, curved at an unnatural angle, blood decorating her face like splatters of paint. Her eyes and mouth are open, faintly distressed rather than horrified, and when he peels her away from the bark as gently as he can, she stirs in his arms.

"Levi," she whispers, the word barely trembling through her lips.

"You'll be okay," he manages to say. His voice cracks on its way out of his mouth, rattling against his teeth. "You'll be okay. We'll be okay."

Her back will not unbend; her spine is shattered in that position and it would be a mercy to end her life now. He knew he would have to do it one day, but never did he imagine it would be so soon—he has never been particularly attached to his life, but she made it something to look forward to every day.

"Almost, Petra," he says. He tries to make his tone as soothing as his frantic mind will allow. He slides one boot off her foot, finds the dagger strapped inside. "Almost."

She cannot move so he lies down next to her, curling her fingers around the hilt of the knife. Now that the moment is here, he is oddly calm. After the battle, the forest is peaceful, sunlight filtering through the gaps in the trees, the rich earthy aroma of the soil calming, and he thinks it isn't a bad place to die.

He presses her knife to his chest, letting the point dig in enough to nick his skin. He lets his own knife rest against her abdomen, and the thought of pushing it in makes his heart constrict but he knows what he is meant to do; he has seen it happen far too many times in the field.

She should have enough strength left for this one last task; they always do. "On three," he says.

Something sad shines in her eyes; she gives the barest hint of a nod.

"One."

He should have gotten Auruo, Erd, and Gunter seen to first. Erd's girl will find her way to the infirmary to end their lives; Auruo and Gunter will join the countless other half-dead waiting for relief. He should have taken care of them first, but he knows other soldiers will be coming along this path soon after, and he cannot bear the thought of Petra suffering all the while.

"Two."

Erd's girl, a sweet civilian, destined to die early because of her lover's career choice. It isn't fair, but nothing ever is—and if the stories are to be believed, it is the price humans pay for not being lonely.

"Three."

If he thinks about it, he won't be able to do it—so he doesn't think. His knife glides through her skin into her flesh, cutting easily through arteries and organs, spilling blood that slides through his fingers, staining his skin.

It is the moment he dies—but he does not feel any pain.

He pulls his blade away and drops it in horror; his skin is untouched. The light is fading fast in Petra's eyes, and her dagger lies a few feet away—she must have flung it as he stabbed her.

"Petra—"

He tries to push his own dagger, sticky with her blood, into her fingers, but with sheer force of will she curls her wrist away; as he watches, her fingers go slack and her eyes grow dim. "I'm sorry, Levi," she whispers, but it might be his imagination; she does not seem to have any strength left to speak anymore. "I love you but… humanity needs you more…"

Her eyes flicker shut, then still.

Something in him is numb; he isn't sure what it is anymore, himself or her. He picks up his blade and tries to shove it into his chest with a violent thrust; it clatters against his skin and falls from his fingers. He picks it up and tries again, then again, but already he can feel the stars of his soul rushing to cover the gaping loss in the constellation, forming something completely different in the process; he can feel himself rejuvenating, energy racing through his limbs and sparking life within him, something entirely new and not him nor Petra filling his body with fresh vitality.

He has never been so alive, and he has never felt so dead.

He drops his knife, holds her dead body in his arms, and cries.


End file.
